On The Cusp of Middle and Old Age in Northwest Queens (N.Y.C.) in The Early 21st Century

The title of this entry may spark, and rightfully so, a few quick, basic questions by any reader with even a casual interest in aging, New York and the present day. Whose cusp are we discussing? What is unique about the section of New York mentioned? What is different about the last decade from previous ones and why should anyone care about any of this? The last question is by far the most attention arresting one and the most difficult to answer, but this blogger will try to do so at the conclusion of this essay.

A heated discussion about NIMBY caused hurt feelings at a cocktail party I once attended in my late uncle's very upscale cooperative apartment in Manhattan several years ago. I was perhaps the only member in attendance of "the bridge and tunnel set", i.e. a resident of a locality adjacent to but separated from Manhattan by its surrounding waterways and more importantly, by a cultural, economic and political gulf that has existed almost since Washington's day. The above mentioned acronym stands for "Not In My Backyard" and it usually refers to the negative reactions, as it did on this occasion, to the prospective arrival of a socially undesirable element of the populace into a particular neighborhood (in this case, one on the upper Westside). At this gathering there were several friends and neighbors of my relative who were registering, very emphatically, their complaints about a proposed clinic for recovering drug addicts and about another situation: the likely establishment of a home for unwed mothers run by an arm of the Catholic church. The otherwise politically and socially liberal views (or at least claimed so) of plausibly, all of the Manhattanites there, contrasted almost comically with their ardent NIMBY views. "There are plenty of empty storefronts up on Amsterdam avenue above 96th street. Why didn't they explore those?" "I remember those empty crack vials in the streets when I lived downtown, before they cleaned up Alphabet City. Yuck! What a horror each morning to see those stoned wrecks of humanity sprawled out in the alleys." "Oh, these ones up here are recovering, are they? Well, I don't know, that methadone seems just a substitute that leaves them just as zombie-like as before." "What about the pregnant ones in the old Congressional Hotel?" "Well, I tell you, we don't need those poor, ignorant kids, with the church holding their hands and saying everything's okay. Did anyone ever bother to explain to them how much it costs to raise a child, including college? Do they even know the difference between a toy balloon and a condom?" "Yes, don't they know that a woman has had a choice in this country for over thirty years now?" Several lamentations later I felt the need to mingle and contribute something to the discussion, to show an understanding of their concerns (if not an approval of some of their remarks) with analogous personal experiences and to perhaps, frankly, elicit an acknowledgment of my anxiety by a sympathetic heart, if not a kindred spirit, about what was troubling me about my neighborhood. I began with simply announcing where I lived: the precise section of the borough of Queens. I then almost instantaneously thought of several abortion clinics about a mile from my home, but decided, with equal alacrity, to not remark about them and thus avoid an obvious source of intractable and irreconcilable argumentation between ever so clearly divergent world views and actually, between most any and all Americans, even within the same nuclear families (I did not reckon that I had the psychic energy for that particular fight on that day, or for this particular essay. Do not think though that that battle shall not one day be joined.). No recently opened clinics nearby for substance abusers came to mind, but then something uncomplicated occurred to me: I would speak the truth, as I understood it, and to, what was after all, assumedly, an intelligent and rational group of persons, about what was honestly disturbing to me about where I lived. And I would state facts, try to leave emotion aside, and trust to old fashioned virtues like common sense, fair play and the hope that ideology and provincialism (of the normally unrecognized or denied Manhattan variety) would not leave me out in the cold. I might as well have, as the old song's lyrics tells us: "gone to Alaska in my B.V.D.s" and expected warmth there as to have relied on a responsive and positive take on my recitation of the woes that have befallen my neighborhood of over sixty years.

Yes, no one understood or cared about my beefs, but my late uncle (who never allowed his keen mind to be trumped by sentimentality, politics or ideology) had once reminded and warned me about people's limitations when it came to sympathizing and, absolutely and certainly, when it came to empathizing. "NIMBY has a very close relative. He's called 'YNINMN' ('your neighborhood is not my neighborhood') and you need to quickly realize this. The critical question to be answered in all of this: whose ox is being gored?" And I guess (thanks for enlightening me, dear departed uncle), when it's my ox, I'd best not expect too much help from "progressive" folks who just don't spend much time thinking about someone else's struggles, particularly if he is white, unable to afford Manhattan and is not a member of a politically correct minority group (soon to be, if not already: majority group), namely: undocumented immigrants. To refer to a person of this group by the perfectly accurate term "illegal alien" would be akin (so goes the reasoning of the P.C. and/or Manhattanite crowd) to someone calling my grandfather a "wop" fifty years ago or my Jewish friends' forefathers being referred to as "kikes."

Again, no one at the cocktail party wanted to hear (that is, every part of each of their brains, especially the one connected to their auditory canals, recoiled at the physiological impossibility of not being able to "un-hear" what I was saying). Almost amazingly, no one placed their hands over their ears, but I realized that these folks with their exceedingly well developed self-images of their vaunted sophistication and supposed tolerance would not dare to look foolish: infinitely preferable was to actually be so, i.e. give no weight or legitimacy to any of my complaints and pretend no problem existed across the East river. Well, the laundry list of unpleasantries (and yes, it's dirty laundry, but it's not of my making, though no hands seemed willing to come aboard and assist me in any clean-up) that I announced had obviously caused much discomfort, especially with its relatednes to the sticky dilemmas of immigration, ethnicity, race, sanitation, the law and matters of space. Yes, it's no secret that I am the old cuss upon the cusp and on first blush, there is nothing apparently particularly special about northwest Queens other than the fact that the unpleasantness I shall finally relate here, affects all residents there profoundly, whether they are aware of it or not. By both chance and circumstance, I dwell in this region of New York's largest "outer" borough (that adjective, curiously, always seems to connote the phrase "Outer Space" when used by a Manhattanite). But on further reflection, the chafing of my already thin and soon to be wrinkly skin is unique: the very direct and very forceful result of socio-political events, the passage of time, and also of especially virulent and intense, sociological, racial, ethnic and cultural changes that have, by chance as well as by, arguably, inevitability and yes, design, occurred singularly and in a tsunami-like fashion in northwest Queens. Ours, here, is the Ground Zero of the Illegal Alien Tsunami in the entire northeast if not the entire U.S. I shall name names: most affected are the neighborhoods of Jackson Heights, Elmhurst, Woodside, Corona, Astoria, Rego Park, Sunnyside and to a lesser but still, to a sea change-like degree: Long Island City, Flushing, East Elmhurst and in fact, all of Queens and most of all of the five boroughs to widely, but to much less widely varying degrees with each passing year. In other words, most of New York and soon to follow, it would seem: the nation, is changing and, undoubtedly, not at all for the better. How?


1. Crowding- My observations, anecdotal they be, as are really, all human accounts, are both truly seen, and viscerally (and palpably) felt. I have noted and continue to note, the quality of daily life deteriorating year by year. For example, the ability to drive along avenues perpendicular to the important commercial blocks of Steinway street is made increasingly slow and difficult by the sheer volume of, not just cars, but by pedestrians and more recently, by bicyclists (deliverymen and now, more and more often by recreational cyclists, thanks to the Parks Dept.'s czarina, the despised "Ghenghis-Sadistic" Kahn and her psychotic bike lane schemes). Countless other thoroughfares experience arterially sclerotic traffic patterns and not only during rush hour. Backing out of my tiny driveway (technically no longer worthy of the name since we converted our garage to a spare room in '66 and too small even for our compact car to not jut out slightly onto the public sidewalk) is increasingly problematic. More often than not, huge vehicles (S.U.V.s, trucks, etc.) park adjacent to the passenger side of my curb "cut" and block any easy view of oncoming traffic. Cars backing up or even tooling down the one way street the wrong way are not rare events because of construction, sanitation trucks, school buses, tow trucks, etc. blocking passage. All this further impacts on one's increasingly fragile peace of mind. A block zoned for many decades as "mixed use", i.e. allowing small factories and residences to co-exist, has resulted, in the particular, in a chokingly and seemingly endless condition of cars (including stretch limousines) awaiting repairs at or being pushed into the bays of two uncomfortably close automotive engine repair and body shops. Many of these pre-empt the use of precious car spaces on the street and other paralyzing conditions contribute to and further exacerbate the stress of living in a large urban area. Alternate side parking regulations (the requirement, under penalty of a summons, to remove a parked car from a particular side of the street for a limited time on certain days to allow street cleaning by the Sanitation Dept.) further restrict liberty of movement. These last two issues are, properly speaking, not part of the recent social problems, but they have never helped to endear one to life in this part of the wormy Big Apple, however "traditional" (long lived) and because of how enduringly oppressive they have been.

A final note: in the last half dozen years a factory diagonally across from our house has housed a union-run school for apprentice lathers and metal workers. In the early years, there were at least two occasions when a type of shape-up for a very limited number of jobs offered through the school, involved hundreds of applicants waiting for days, yes, days to gain entry to the building. They sat in their cars or pitched tents on the sidewalk and caused great inconvenience as well as generating much noise and trash. Today, the school is in session several days each month and the issues of crowding continue whenever they arrive with their vehicles. At least one car, almost every time, manages to park in a way that blocks or partially blocks someone's driveway and it is usually mine.

2.Scofflaws and Law Enforcement- Though we have always had citizens disobeying laws, usually as a result of carelessness, the above mentioned crowding conjoined with less enforcement, particularly of traffic rules, has brought about more and more instances (and I am amazed with each passing day how more and more brazen are the offenses) of deliberate bending of or out and out disregard for basic rules and laws conceived and enacted primarily with safety in mind. Last week I was crossing Steinway with the usual great difficulty (that I have almost become inured to) as a car traveling in the opposite direction lurched forward before the light had turned green in order to make a left turn onto Steinway in front of and across my car's path. Like a person opening a door to enter a public building just as someone else seeks and then proceeds to exit, and my action then elicits not the slightest thanks, acknowledgment or explanation, I became stuck, dangerously, in the intersection, as not one or two, but five additional vehicles pressed their advantage like a freight train that could not be denied, as they made softer and softer left turns (spending more time occupying more territory in a pedestrian crosswalk and inconveniencing and endangering those on foot) as I attempted to go forward. The final selfish motorist, I was determined, would be viewed and glowered at by me in silent protest. I caught the driver's eye and became aware of something, I am not entirely sure what, as he returned my stare with an inscrutable, yet defiant and unintelligent gaze. I would have preferred a devlish grin to the bovine-like visage of this hairless ape who the state, apparently (I use this adverb advisedly) permits to negotiate several tons of steel and sheetmetal across my path. On second thought, perhaps he did not have a license, or it was suspended or (and this third possibility stirs dark thoughts in my soul) he is not eligible to obtain a valid driver's license because of his illegal alien status and he doesn't give a flying…act of copulation... about the law. Why should he? Okay, I only said I would try to leave emotion alone (didn't claim I would succeed). Of course, there was no police officer, nor does there ever seem to be one on the scene whenever these seemingly minor but quality-of-life eroding injustices occur. Another example: there is a fire hydrant in Jackson Heights that is very often blocked by an automobile, sometimes for much of an entire day. A long suffering resident and an individual well known to this blogger, lives yards away from the "pump" and has noted for years the issuance of summonses to these vehicles and the unfailing destiny of each two-dimensional proclamation against illegality: the tickets are ripped up and/or ignored. First prize for "chutzpah" and risky/hostile behavior must however, be awarded to the cretins who speed up behind me on a secondary thoroughfare, again, not rarely, as I approach closely to a certain traffic light that will turn yellow, and quickly red before I enter the intersection, unless one goes above the city speed limit. Long before I am being tailgated, in contempt for my caution, horns are honked and then, finally, a middle finger is presented to me outside of the driver's window as a solid white line is crossed and I am passed by as the signal is either a very stale yellow or even a freshly DEAD red. Dead is the operative word here, as a choice seems to be coalescing in the near future if I continue to insist on obeying traffic rules as I have for 44 years of legal driving. I can speed through lights of varying colors to keep up with the "cool crowd" or I can have my rear rammed by an incensed driver who resents my cramping of his lifestyle. Either way, coercion that endangers one's own life seems the grim prospect if one wants to drive in this brave new world of Mr. Bloomberg's fiefdom.

3.Cultural Dissonance and Sanitation- Burgeoning numbers of foreigners coming to our shores is nothing new. What is novel, aside from the great societal ambivalence about the illegal status of so many of them, is the idea that we can absorb these folks without radically changing America itself, most especially when we don't respect our own traditions, laws, customs, or remember our own salubrious and "fair and square" ways of doing business and interacting in public. The placing of large paper cups on the counters of fast food stores near their cash registers in recent years as well as their appearance at the end of a checkout line at supermarkets, may seem hardly remarkable. Yet they signal a significant change in the way employees (and employers, by their assent or indifference) relate to customers. A closer kinship with aggressive mendicants is evinced by such behavior than a connectedness to the centuries old Anglo-American ways of commerce: I (the customer) do NOT pay you a gratuity for a service unless said service is rendered after I've been seated in a restaurant, waited upon, served and at least superficially, been fussed over or have been transported, securely, privately and safely to my destination by a taxi or livery driver. There are other instances, of course, when tipping is proper, but "stand-up" purchases in retail stores, is no doubt, a bogus occasion for almost compelling a gratuity, that's likely the invention of the non-European immigrant, a ploy of the bazaar or of a culture that focuses more on extracting something from, rather than providing a service for a customer. In defense of this view, I hasten to add that I am not parsimonious as a rule. Those employees at the end of that same supermarket checkout line who bag the groceries for you and carry them out to your car (they are rarer and rarer these days, replaced it seems by hustlers from off the street, not employed by the supermarket) are eminently deserving of compensation, but not those who've concocted the notion of the static paper cup that more properly needs replacing by a return of the old March of Dimes or other charitable organizations' mute beggar's "hand" of the cardboard cylinder, complete with sweetly reasoned advertising persuasively beckoning you to give.

Another story: several years ago, an old friend and neighbor with an unusually large and verdant piece of property, especially for n.w. Queens, was working in his driveway, carefully hosing down some dusty and parched soil and asphalt after having attended to his admirably manicured lawn and equally doted upon vegetable garden. Not far from where he was was the perimeter of his land and the adjacent sidewalk and public street. A car suddenly screeched to a halt, directly across from him and hard by his sparkling, galvanized steel garbage cans, just outside his gate, but still on his own property. It was a large shabby sedan, swollen with humanity on a hot summer's day. One of its occupants, an obese woman holding a filthy disposable child's diaper, rolled down her window and tossed the feculent object on the cover enclosing one of the cans. Her eyes met my neighbor's a moment after this. "What do you think you're doing lady?" he enquired, more in amazed incredulity than in anger. She at first blankly stared at him, but slowly, some form of cerebration seemed to urge her to try and size up the strange man and his question. A long pause was followed by a "light bulb" (however dimly burning) made incandescent above her head: "Oh, yes!! I see!! You like to keep things clean!!" Her frame of reference, undoubtedly included a world that she once, and now continues to choose to inhabit, that regards sanitation as a subject of faint interest and a cultural curiosity. She apparently perceived the sensibilities of an aging and perhaps eccentric North American man as a quaint and charming oddity rather than as a howl of protest over the degradation of the environment or of a way of life that champions beauty and cleanliness. A culture that leaves things to chance or is satisfied with approximations (the diaper was disposed of, after all, in the vicinity of the concavity of the garbage can). No need to even go into the subject of private versus public trash cans: that issue would have been too frustratingly and elusively abstract to successfully explain or to enlighten this immigrant.

The discovery of chicken entrails on a sidewalk, of an early Sunday morning several blocks away near a public playground, is an infrequent but not rare experience for this blogger. Santeria (an Afro-Brazilian religion: a meld of Christian and pagan traditions) includes in its ceremonies a procedure that resulted in the bloody goo under my feet while attempting to complete a relaxing constitutional on a weekend anticipated to be a peaceful one. No such luck in 21st century n.w. Queens. Lastly, on this subject of organic rubbish: my Hispanic next door neighbor of several years seems to generate large amounts of trash, often bulky items like discarded furniture and empty boxes of "big ticket" electronic products. These are all properly gathered and put out for the morning's collection, but occasionally unsealed organic trash is placed outside in an interim position near my ground floor window on a summer's day well before the scheduled pickup by N.Y.C.'s "Strongest", as sanitation men here like to be called. Well "strongest" is the operative word to describe the odor of the rotting mess inside one huge plastic barrel of my neighbor's collection of refuse. A delayed visit by the "strongmen" was an opportunity once for an opossum to luxuriate amongst the onion peels, vomit and sour mayonnaise. Exotic wildlife may be one of the few perqs of the New Nueva York.


Well, that's my story and maybe someone may care and maybe no one will. Perhaps, at least, an anthropologist may one day in the not too distant future help to piece together the demise of Western civilization with the aid of my protestations recorded here. Why SHOULD anyone care? Well, only persons who loved and continue to love what remains good and wholesome about our country can or will care. There is no point in appealing to those who have no interest or appreciation for what was, based either on plain or willful ignorance or on simply no memory of what a society of unified, industrious, "work and play by the rules" people entailed. In worst cases, and sadly they are not theoretical or rare ones, there are those who actively seek the ruination of this land with their avarice, lawlessness, deceit, enmity and yes, slovenliness born of grievances too numerous and varied to list here and all wholly illegitimate in my patriotic view. The "old age" I referred to, is of course, mine. The ability to sustain blows, such as the corruption and deterioration of many aspects, both material and spiritual of the home (neighborhood) where one has lived and grown up (and down) is slowly comprehended and painfully well understood as a compromised power. The convergence of external decay with the slow diminution of one's own personal vitality is one of the most deeply mournful realities that one can experience. I pray that I do not learn of or experience a greater one in my remaining days.

Are these problems only 21st century phenomena as the title of this essay suggests? Of course they are not. 2001 is a convenient as well as accurate starting point to mark the sea change in American life ushered in by the atrocities of September 11th. The events of that day were such a puissant symbol of the potentiality of decline and destruction for our nation and its conincidence with the start of a new century makes such a chosen demarcation line between one era and another almost irresistible. But the decline of America, relative to unbridled immigration, both legal and illegal, began many years before in 1965 with the radical shift in immigration policy by the Democratic congress at that time. Nearly a half century later we have arrived at a point where no civil war over the problem appears imminent or even likely, as the erosion has been gradual, in just the right degrees (for the social engineers and crafstmen of this conceptualization-cum-near realization of a steroidal and sterile diverseness and a deeply discordant America) of gentle but steadily relentless stratagems of drift and inaction transforming the land's demographics perhaps irrevocably, to a point that the nation has become both inured and addicted to paralysis of effective action against the present situation. The greed for cheap labor and political power by elements of business and government and the lure of "freebies" and undeserved privileges (like the "right" to own a house) through mutual sycophancy continues to trump moral principles and love for country in far too many cases. The usual cries of racism and bigotry will continue to try to place a muzzle on thoughtful reflection on the worthy interrogative: "Where the hell are we going and why?"

But the greatest foe remains we ourselves and the habits that we must immediately begin to disabuse ourselves of: tolerance of mediocrity or worse, disregard for the rule of law, a moronic sense of entitlement, both to economic gain and to the sating of most any appetite we may harbor, be it 1) the craving to speed from point A to point B just because a traffic signal is deemed a nuisance or "too long" by our standards of patience, i.e. impatience or 2) the addiction (more a compulsion than an impulse) to amassing wealth while cutting corners on the quality of products and services, a kind of "double greed" that keeps high the lustful demand for the labor provided so cheaply by masses of foreigners illegally ensconced here. Goaded on by an atmosphere that encourages instant gratification and no accountability or consequences for nearly anything (think "O.J.", the abomination of the recent Anthony case, the Cop-Rape case here in N.Y. and countless other examples of relativism run amok and the sustained assault on common sense, decency and the continued rationalizations for and of bad behavior), America is headed for a fall as surely as Icarus was for his.

The Disappearing Native-born White American Male in Advertising (And Most Everywhere Else)

I have been watching television commercials and reading newspapers and magazines for most of my sixty one years of living in the U.S. In the last two decades I have observed, particularly in t.v. ads, that the relative paucity of actors of the kind described in this essay's title is a fact and that there are less and less appearances by such actors with each passing year. That the decline of the Caucasian population, i.e. European-descended individuals (mostly those whose forefathers were from groups of the earliest colonial days all the way through the time of the last and greatest period of such immigration: 1890-1924), began, however imperceptibly in this country, in 1965 with the enactment of new legislation that enabled great waves of non-European immigrants to come to America is, in retrospect, a fact. Another fact, is that one is generally more than discouraged, by all who hold power in government and the media, to complain about this historical trend. "Trend" is, to be perfectly correct, not the right word. As an aging Caucasian American of European ancestry in 2011, who has seen the developments of the last forty six years, my characterization of the current state of affairs, would be more accurately served by the phrase "the result of ineluctable and historically profound changes of the demographics in the U.S." Well, while there is still breath in me, and while this nation remains a republic, I am going to complain and I'm going to complain long and loud.

Is racial pride permitted in today's America? If one is a white man, I think not, at least not without some form of societal opprobrium. This is an astonishing fact, particularly in view of the fact that the majority (not a plurality) of Americans (wait, let me check my watch) are still, Caucasians. The historical fact of the subjugation of non-whites and the efforts since the Civil War (and especially since the Civil Rights movement of the 1960s) to compensate for injustices related to that oppression are all well understood. The concern today, for me, is could the pendulum ever swing to a point that intolerance and unjust domination could be directed against my progeny or to be precise, those of my relatives and fellow Caucasians? The hoots of derision by so-called "liberal" or progressive whites in reaction to my fears, are not imagined sounds. Liberalism has always had a strong streak of self-criticism that all too frequently crosses over into the realm of self-loathing. But leaving aside that pathology, as those who welcome the mixing of the races: legally, socially or even more intimately are, in a free society, empowered to pursue such associations, I feel that those who incline toward the more normative aspects of human societies throughout history, i.e. natural choices of homogeneity, whether based on language, shared histories, cultural commonalities or yes, race, are, or at least ought to be, equally at liberty to follow their hearts in these exceedingly important matters. Free association is such a deeply rooted tradition and special part of the American story. Alexis de Tocqueville noted this with more than a little amazement in his travels throughout our young land and as recorded in his seminal book "Democracy in America." He was in awe of the myriad of societies and social organizations of America in the first half of the nineteenth century and of the powerful strengths of both religious fervor and a democratic spirit expressed through these wonderfully varied units of social systems, clubs, churches, etc. On first glance these might have seemed as competing forces, but not so in America, the great French historian and social scientist marveled.

There is no government policy (yet) thankfully that impinges on this fundamental freedom of association, but to view commercials in the U.S. of the 21st century, one would get the very strong impression that either: 1) every social gathering in America consists of at least one member of each major racial group (Caucasian, Negro or Mongoloid); 2)Caucasians generally do not or are not permitted to gather in groups greater than two and one or both of them are required to play a character who is a buffoon or in need of enlightenment by the other or preferably by a black or Asian actor whose character is both wise and in no way can be subjected to ridicule; 3)if a Caucasian man has a social relationship with anyone in the advertisement, it may be that of one with a female Caucasian partner, but he'd damn well better have as his male friend, a black, Asian or non-white and that person's spouse or female partner must be present.

It has gotten to the point where the more and more infrequent depiction of a Caucasian family (in perhaps an ad for a family car…this in itself is becoming a rarity) has conditioned many to view such an ad as quasi-racist. In fact, a not unimaginable situation has been reached, whereby a haughty poobah may one day soon enquire accusingly: "Is everyone in your family a white person?" Again, the historical impetus to "right wrongs" of yesteryear, when minority groups were rarely, if ever, featured in a commercial is no doubt at play here, and changing demographics (particularly in major urban centers) and the all important profit motive are all no doubt factors. However, a militant social engineering via portrayals of social relationships of exquisitely and improbably balanced and integrated groups that may not and in many cases do not correspond to reality, but resonate with and represent the fondest wishes of the powers that be in government and in advertising, is a consistent, irritating and relentlessly predictable practice. These mathematically contrived distributions of vignettes of perfect rainbows of societal bliss and harmony are either proving prescient relative to when they first appeared several decades ago or, more likely, they are the second part of the aphorism "Life Imitates Art" and are, through their mighty power of mass persuasion, causes with phenomenally major effects. After all, we did elect three years ago, not the first black man to this nation's presidency, but the first man ever, of racially mixed parentage. It is curious that this fact is almost rarely mentioned by the media.

I believe that diversity and multi-culturism as conceived and promulgated today are highly overrated world views when they seek to promote false hype that includes revisionist history to the exclusion of Western chronicles and its people's accomplishments. And I also believe that hatred towards any person by any other group or individual because they are simply different or of a different racial, ethnic or culturally alien group is both wrong and, my religion teaches me, a sin. But expressing love for one's own people, needs to be recognized as a universal right and that, consequently, means that Caucasians also retain the liberty to sing the praises of their people and teach their children and the rest of the world that ours is an illustrious history, not without chapters of failure and shame, but nearly unmatched regarding the record of contributions (and continuing blessings) made to all persons on this planet. Pride in one's own family needn't diminish another's and the love of one's own tribe needn't include the darker side of tribalism that the history of mankind has too often revealed.

So let's see more white actors and spokespersons pitching, hopefully, great American products and services and let's not be afraid to show attractive Caucasian men, relating and communicating intelligently, humorously and appealingly with each other and their audience/customers. Oh yes, let's have more than a few of them advance traditional and patriotic views. Why, they could even reveal themselves as gentlemen, heterosexually oriented, kind to little old ladies and stray animals and they could even demonstrate selflessness by not promoting the consumption of products or services rapaciously or greedily, as is so often the case when current salesmen of any race pitch food, drink, clothing or automobiles. Further, let's not be afraid to show historically correct dramatizations that may or may not include actors of entirely one race or of an integrated cast. As with the "Miss Saigon" controversy of twenty years ago, let the best qualified performer be hired for any role regardless of race, creed, color or national origin, but let's be mindful of the pleasure of an audience and the factor of believability owed to them. A theoretical casting of a Denzel Washington in an imaginary play whose protagonist is Leif Ericsson is as ridiculous as the role of Curly in "Oklahoma!" being played by a Chinese man or the lead role in Hansberry's "A Raisin In The Sun" being portrayed by a Meryl Streep. Common sense needs to trump political correctness and no group, including Caucasians, should be shackled by misguided attempts to mould and shape people according to confining ideological and sociological rules like permitting only integrated groups if white actors appear.

Big Day at the Ball Park

There is a play in baseball folklore simply known as "The Catch."

Late September, 1954; World Series, my beloved Giants vs the Cleveland Indians.  Willie Mays, my first childhood sports hero, makes a game saving catch, described as an optical illusion by those who saw it in person.  The Giants go on to win that world series, their last until 2010.

"The Catch" has been replaced, not in baseball folklore, but in my heart.

I remember my first catch.

Summer of 1957, a pick up game in the long alley way behind the houses of Bartley, Eddie, and Don.
I'm playing first base.  A line drive is hit to my left, I lunge and catch the ball just before it flew over the fence into a small garden.
It was a game saving catch, and perhaps a life saving catch.
The garden belonged to a mean old man in the neighborhood.  Maybe he wasn't mean, just sad.
He was a widower.
It was a game saving catch because we wouldn't have been able to retrieve the ball if I hadn't caught it, and the game would have been over.
It was, perhaps, a life saving catch because he might have killed us if we trampled his garden.

Flash forward to late May, 2011.

The day, like most Saturdays in May, starts with Landon's T-Ball game.  He gets numerous hits and makes an out at first base by catching the ball and touching the bag.
So proud; he couldn't wait to tell his big brother who was at another field waiting for his game to start.

By the time we got there, Landon determined that he had made 13 outs!  Atta boy, Landon.

Now it's Miles' turn.  Early in the game, he is playing centerfield; same position Willie Mays played.
The best player on the opposing team (I think he was eight feet tall), hits a scorching drive to Miles' right.
He lunges, gets  back handed leather on the ball, but can't quite hold on to it.  Nice try, Miles.  Good effort.

Last inning,  Miles is playing first base; good strategy to have your best fielder there in the late innings.
Miles records the first out just like Landon did; he caught the ball and touched the base.  Attaboy, Miles.

(It should be noted at this point in the narrative that Miles' Mom has sweetened the pot by offering the incentive of a trip to Friendly's if either Miles or Landon catch a fly ball during a game. The outs Miles and Landon have made so far do not qualify.)




Several batters and run later, the game is no doubt tied.  The bags are loaded, there is only one out, the out Miles got several batters ago.


After carefully taking several pitches, the batter (a behemoth of a boy), lofts a high fly ball  on the right side of the infield.  Miles appears to be under it, but a gust of wind has the ball drifting into the stands.
At the last possible moment, Miles dives, catches the ball, and in one sweeping motion touches first base with the tip of his toe.  (At least that's how I remember it.)
An unassisted, game ending, tie preserving double play!
A joyful roar erupts from the crowd.!  As well as roaring, I am struggling to control my quivering lips.

Wow.  "The Catch."
Awesome.  And a trip to Friendly's.

Tom Hanks, in a famous baseball movie, tells his all girl baseball team that there is no crying in baseball.

Apparently Mr. Hanks' character never suffered for almost six decades with a bridesmaid team, only to be finally rewarded with a World Series Championship.

Nor did he ever see his grandsons play Little League Baseball, where everyone is a champion.

Thanks for the memories, Miles and Landon.  I look forward to many, many more.